


Cold Comfort

by Quasar



Series: Skew Lines [4]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Dark, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-29
Updated: 2010-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 07:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasar/pseuds/Quasar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheppard joins the enzyme-withdrawal club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Comfort

Everyone was shocked. And glad, of course. Possibly one or two of the others (Carson) were just as wobbly-kneed as Rodney. Teyla was quizzing Sheppard on what had happened, while Carson was trying to do an exam; Ronon and the Marines were ready to blow the Wraith's head off if it twitched. So it turned out Rodney didn't need to say or do anything in particular to cover up his reaction, since everyone else's reactions covered for him just fine. And that was good, because he wasn't even sure whether his strongest emotion was happiness or nausea.

Sheppard had been fed on by a Wraith; that was obviously bad. But what was he supposed to feel when it turned out Sheppard was un-fed on by the same Wraith? And what did they call that, anyway, regurgitation? It wasn't an accurate parallel, but it described Rodney's feelings about the process well enough. Not that the result wasn't good -- they were all relieved at the result. But the method gave Rodney chills.

In the seat behind him, Sheppard was being difficult, as usual. "Come on, Doc, I'm fine. See? The bleeding's already stopped."

"Look, Colonel, your body's been through a tremendous strain today," Carson said.

"But I feel fine! I feel . . . pretty good, actually." Sheppard's voice dropped a little at the last. Apparently he was as ambivalent about all this as Rodney.

"That's because you've been pumped full of Wraith enzyme."

The jumper dipped and bobbled, but not more than the inertial dampeners could handle.

Teyla was the first to recover. "How much enzyme?" she asked.

"I'm not exactly sure, since I don't know anything at all about this reverse-feeding process. But from the Colonel's appearance and vital signs, I'd say it involves more enzyme than a regular feeding. And before that he was fed on, what, three times?"

"Four," said Sheppard flatly.

"So that's at least five times a normal enzyme dose, in less than twenty-four hours. Not as much as Ford got, but enough that you'll feel it when it's gone."

"Wonderful," Sheppard drawled. "My day just got better."

"On top of the withdrawal, you'll be feeling the physical strain of those feedings. The energy removal throws your cell chemistry out of whack and affects every organ. And I suspect the energy restoration takes a toll of its own. I can't tell ye any more until we get some scans and blood tests done. We need to get ye back to the infirmary right away, Colonel."

"Not yet. First we have to drop off . . . this guy."

"What, you didn't give him a name?" Rodney quipped as they neared the Stargate.

"I guess I was all named out after coming up with two hundred of them."

"How about Gene, then?" A quick scan confirmed the area was clear, and they'd already informed the Genii commander that their half of the mission was done. The other half, they knew, was a failure; Kolya had slipped the net.

"You want to name a Wraith after your sister?" Sheppard asked.

"What? No! I was thinking of Simmons." Rodney frowned. "Of course, that name has its own unpleasant associations." He started to dial the gate.

"If you're talking about that star-thing on his face, he'd have to be Paul," said Sheppard, then leaned forward. "Hey, are you dialing Atlantis? I said --"

"Just a quick message to Elizabeth, then we can drop off Paul or Tommy or whatever you want to call him."

"We're wasting time here, Rodney!"

"That Wraith's not going to stay down long," Ronon put in.

Rodney ignored them and activated the gate. "Atlantis, this is McKay."

"We read you, Rodney." Elizabeth's tense voice told him he'd made the right choice.

"Mission accomplished. We have Sheppard, and he's okay. Uh, mostly okay." Rodney glanced back at Sheppard's un-aged face one more time, trying to convince himself.

A sigh of relief was barely audible. "That's good news, Rodney." Her tone was still cautious; she must be wondering how badly Sheppard was affected.

"He's not even any older," said Rodney. "Some weird thing with --"

"Wasting time!" Sheppard sang.

"Look, it's complicated, but we need to make a side trip before we come home. We'll debrief when we get back."

"Wait, Rodney, where are you --"

"McKay out," he said, and cut the radio. There was just no way to explain. He closed the wormhole and looked at Sheppard again. "All right, where do you want to go?"

Sheppard glanced toward the back of the jumper. "Better be someplace with Wraith activity. You know any addresses off the top of your head?"

"Of course I do, I --"

"Fine, so dial one!"

Rodney gritted his teeth. "How about M6H-491?" He reached for the DHD and then hesitated, realizing that was the planet where Lucius Lavin's magical herb grew. First the enzyme, now the potion -- it seemed all Rodney's stupid drug choices were coming back to haunt him today.

"Perfect," said Sheppard. "Just get us there and get the cloak on as soon as we're clear of the gate."

Rodney wished, not for the first time, that the cloak didn't interfere with the gates' dematerialization process. He didn't like flying to a Wraith planet without concealment. "If we get into a firefight, you can take over," he muttered as he dialed.

If Rodney hadn't already been twitchy, sitting with an open hatch on a Wraith planet while Sheppard calmly chatted with his newest Wraith buddy would have made him so. Actually, it probably would have made him twitchy even if he'd been drugged to his eyeballs. The HUD was helpfully showing three large clusters of life-signs much too close to their position. And even though it was dark, by the light of the Stargate he could make out a familiar-looking clump of plants just along the riverbank. It made his hands itch -- not to gather them, but to set them on fire. That potion had caused him more pain in its way than the Wraith enzyme.

More symbols appeared on the HUD: enemy ships heading this way to investigate the open wormhole.

"We have incoming darts," Rodney said into the radio, but Sheppard just stood out there gabbing away. "Oh no, he doesn't have his earpiece!" Rodney realized. He started to get out of his seat, but he was supposed to be piloting.

"He sees them," said Ronon, standing at the back of the jumper with his pulse pistol aimed at the Wraith. Rodney doubted it was set to stun.

"Then why doesn't he _do_ something --" Rodney began, but just then Sheppard turned and stepped into the jumper.

"Get us out of here, Rodney," he said wearily.

"Finally!" Rodney was only too glad to close the hatch and lift off, but the darts circling overhead made him hesitate to tell Atlantis to open the shield, much less to uncloak the jumper for passage through the wormhole.

"They won't fire on you," said Sheppard as he came to the front of the jumper. "Probably. Depends how good that telepathic connection is, and how persuasive old Paul out there can be."

"That's really comforting," said Rodney weakly, eyes still on the circling ships. One came close to pointing at him, and he jinked sideways too fast for the inertial dampeners.

Sheppard, the only one on his feet, staggered and braced himself against the bulkhead. "Dammit, Rodney, would you fly straight for once in your life!"

That seemed unfair; dodging possible fire should have been Sheppard's job, anyway. "Jawol, mein Fuhrer," he returned resentfully.

"And you can keep the smart comments to yourself!" Sheppard snapped back, which was definitely unfair. Also unlike him.

Rodney could only spare a glance Sheppard's way, but he saw the Colonel looking pinched and tired. Carson was already reaching for the man, trying to get him into a seat.

"Just as I thought," said Carson after a moment. "The enzyme's starting to wear off. Rodney, get us back to Atlantis as fast as ye can."

"Rodney do this, Rodney do that," he muttered under his breath, lining up with the Stargate. "Atlantis, get ready to drop the shield on my mark."

"Ready, Dr. McKay," said the gate technician.

Rodney watched the growing swarm of darts with his hands clenched on the control sticks. It should be Sheppard be doing this, but instead he was sitting in the back seat while Carson checked his pulse.

"I told you, they're not going to do anything--" Sheppard began, just as one of the darts zipped toward the front of the gate and the jumper's position.

A drone fired unbidden, or at least without conscious bidding. "Shit!" Rodney yelped, and tried to divert it. It whipped up and around the threatening dart, then back down to blow up a clump of plants along the riverbank. The dart veered away.

"What the hell are you doing, Rodney?" Sheppard demanded.

"Uh . . . diversion!" Rodney blurted. He'd had enough of playing chicken. "Atlantis, open shield now!" he yelled into the radio, dropped the cloak, and pushed the jumper into the wormhole.

* * *

Rodney stopped by the infirmary a few hours after midnight. He wasn't surprised to find Teyla there; he'd noticed her working out a watch schedule with Ronon in looks and two-word sentences. He hadn't tried to join in because he wasn't sure if he should, or could. He didn't like to remember his own experience with enzyme withdrawal; even though he'd been desperately lonely and afraid for his team at the time, he was glad after the fact that they hadn't witnessed it. Apologizing to Carson had been bad enough. And Rodney hadn't been there for Ronon or Teyla during their withdrawal, either, so he wasn't quite sure what to expect as an onlooker. He was an outsider in this as in everything else.

But eventually he admitted to himself that he wasn't going to be able to sleep. And maybe he was thinking a little bit of the atonement Teyla had suggested to him, so instead of the labs he went to the infirmary to check on Sheppard. Teyla was sitting in a chair next to the bed, her face peaceful and her hands still on her thighs. She didn't even have anything to do or read or watch, which would have driven Rodney crazy.

"Rodney." She smiled and nodded graciously at him.

"I, uh, I just came to check on, uh . . . how is he doing?"

They both looked at the man on the bed, who was asleep but twitching. Red scrubs with white bandages peeking out at the collar looked like high fashion on him, of course, and the fevered flush and sheen of sweat just made him look like he'd come from a bout of exercise -- or sex.

"He has been restless and irritable," Teyla sighed. "Dr. Beckett wished to increase the dose of sedatives and pain relievers, but the Colonel refused."

Of course he did. Rodney, by this point, had been begging to be knocked out with stronger drugs, and accusing Carson of terrible things for refusing. "I figured, if you need a break or anything, I could . . ." He waved vaguely at the bed and the chair.

Teyla tilted her head thoughtfully. "That is very considerate of you, Rodney. I admit, I am tired, but he should not be alone."

"Okay then, go. Get some sleep. I'll, uh, sit with him."

She stood and slipped on the jacket she had draped over the chair. "Ronon will be here in a little over two hours."

"That's fine, I've got plenty to do." Rodney pulled his handheld out of his pocket to show her he was prepared.

Teyla smiled. "Thank you, Rodney. And good night."

So maybe he wasn't that much of an outsider, after all. Rodney sat in the still-warm chair and thought about that for a minute before becoming engrossed in his work.

After a little while, Sheppard's twitching turned to muttering. He gave an especially sharp jerk and opened his eyes. "Mmm -- ungh," he said eloquently.

"You're in the infirmary. In Atlantis," Rodney said quickly in case Sheppard was disoriented. He did look sort of unfocused as he peered at the curtained alcove.

Sheppard made a few more disjointed noises, then said more distinctly, "Why's it so hot in here? I feel really hot." He pushed at the blankets peevishly.

Rodney swallowed hard. A flashback right now would _not_ be helpful. "It seems comfortable to me," he said carefully, turning off his handheld and slipping it into his pocket.

Sheppard looked at him more closely. "McKay. What are you doing here?"

Rodney blinked. Wasn't it obvious? "Teyla said --" he began.

Sheppard talked over him. "Come to gloat?"

"What? No!" Rodney heard his voice rise in indignation and reminded himself to stay calm. Sheppard didn't mean what he was saying, and anyway it was hardly as bad as accusing a medical doctor of trying to murder a patient.

"Thought I was smug and self-righteous when I didn't have to take the enzyme, didn't you?" Sheppard said. "When I never had to go through what the rest of you did."

"Of course I didn't think that," said Rodney, trying to match the calm tones Carson had used in talking to him. Except that his blurred memory insisted Carson had been shouting at him.

"Forgot I negotiated with Ford to get you a lower dose. Forgot I went to bat for you," Sheppard ranted feverishly.

"I didn't forget," Rodney denied as patiently as he could. "You went to bat for all of us, we know that."

"Well, here's your big chance," Sheppard continued in that same hoarse monotone. "I get to find out how it feels, and you get to laugh at me."

God, this was awful. 'Restless and irritable' was one of Teyla's more monumental understatements. "I'm not laughing," Rodney said quietly, knowing he wouldn't be believed and maybe wouldn't even be heard.

Sheppard kicked the covers further down the bed, his head tossing on the pillow. "Dammit, if Carson would just give up a little of his precious store of enzyme, I wouldn't have to go through this. Just a little dose is all it would take. Let me down easier, that's what he should have done."

Rodney's mouth was dry. "It's not a good idea to do it that way, Colonel," he urged. "It didn't work for Ford, remember?"

"Ford . . . Ford was right, dammit," Sheppard muttered. "Makes you stronger, faster -- why not take just a little? I wouldn't have survived as long as I did without that enzyme. Ford's guys were taking it all the time, and they were fine . . . "

Such logic had once made perfect sense to Rodney. "I doubt you'd want to be like Ford's little band of merry kneebreakers," he said, but Sheppard wasn't listening.

"Where the hell is Carson, anyway?" Sheppard said, opening his eyes again and squinting at Rodney. "Shouldn't he be here?"

"It's almost three in the morning," Rodney told him.

"That's when my painkillers are s'posed to wear off. No wonder I feel like hell." He pushed himself up in the bed, moving like an old man even though he looked younger than he had a few days ago. "Damn Carson anyway. If he can't be bothered to look after his own friends . . . " Sheppard started pulling at the tape that held the IV to his arm.

"Hey, wait, what are you doing?" Rodney said. "Don't pull that out, you need it."

"S'empty anyway," said Sheppard with a wave at the shriveled bag hanging from the stand.

"They'll bring more in a second, just let me go get the nurse --"

"Never mind, I'll get it myself." Sheppard tottered out of the curtained alcove and looked around the room. "You know where he keeps it, Rodney?"

Rodney didn't need to ask what 'it' was; Sheppard wasn't talking about a saline drip. "No, I don't know," he said harshly. "Carson won't let me know." Not that he couldn't find it if he really tried. "I think he moves it every few weeks, anyway. Here, just get back in the bed and I'll find the nurse."

Sheppard pushed him away and headed for the rows of shelves along the wall. "It's gotta be around here somewhere." He rooted through the boxes of gauze and tape and plastic implements for poking in various orifices.

"Stop that!" Rodney hissed, then realized that raising his voice might be the smartest thing to do right now. "Colonel, stop, you're making a mess!" He looked hopefully at the door, but no nurse appeared.

"Damn, where the hell does he keep it?" Sheppard continued, thoroughly obsessed. "Maybe in his office . . ."

"Colonel, you're acting like an idiot." Rodney grabbed Sheppard's arm. "Stop this and get back in -- _OW!_"

Sheppard might be walking like an octogenarian, but he still punched like a commando. Rodney reeled back, knocked over an IV stand and heart monitor, and pushed a gurney hard into the wall with his ass before hitting the floor.

"Ow, my back!" Rodney yelled. "I think I just pulled something. Ow. And you gave me a black eye. I should have let Teyla deal with you." He looked around the room with doubled, half-blurred vision. "Sheppard?"

He was gone.

"Shit!" And Rodney was supposed to be watching him. Where the hell was that nurse, anyway? Rodney clambered to his feet and hobbled out into the front room to find Sheppard trying his ATA glare on the door of Carson's office.

Finally the nurse appeared, and two steps behind him came the night-duty doctor. Sheppard didn't take the interruption well, and Rodney wasn't the only one with a black eye by the time a quick dose of sedative was pumped into Sheppard's arm. Rodney was drafted to help carry the patient back to bed, his back complaining strenuously the entire way. The doctor -- he thought her name was Akebe -- gave his eye a cursory check and got him two ice packs: one for his face and one for his back.

Then they were alone again, only this time Sheppard was strapped to the bed, and Rodney was aching all over.

"This is some kind of payback for all the trouble I gave Carson, isn't it?" Rodney asked the air. Sheppard -- more or less awake but too loopy to see straight -- didn't answer.

Rodney remembered what it felt like: the last of the enzyme trickling through his veins, his heart thrumming right up into his throat, and every cell burning with need. He'd been certain he would die if he didn't get more of the enzyme. Despite the cocktail Carson had pumped into him, he'd still felt jittery -- excited and terrified and angry and horny . . .

The eye that wasn't buried in an ice pack flicked involuntarily to Sheppard's crotch. The covers hadn't been replaced after they hauled him back to the bed, so it was easy to see how the red cotton was tented up. Rodney tore his gaze away and bent to retrieve one of the fallen blankets, groaning as his back twinged. Still holding the ice to his face, he tried to arrange the cover with one hand, but it took a lot of work to untwist. He really didn't mean to brush his hand over Sheppard's groin while straightening it.

Sheppard moaned and jerked his hips upward.

And then . . . Rodney wasn't sure how it happened, exactly. It was as if he stepped back and someone else took control of his body. Someone who calmly set the ice pack on the chair, finished straightening the blanket, then reached underneath it calmly and confidently to grip the warm ridge of flesh through the cotton scrubs.

For a moment he stopped, but not because he was afraid or shy; he wasn't really feeling anything. Maybe just to prove that he could stop. He didn't really like the idea of being under someone else's control. He never did anything without thinking about it. But then Sheppard pumped his hips against Rodney's hand and groaned.

"You want me too, don't you?" Rodney whispered, echoing the voice of his nightmares. "I know you've thought about it . . . John." Just saying the name made a wicked thrill run up his spine.

John opened his eyes and squinted. "M'Kay?" he rasped. "Wha're you --"

Rodney squeezed hard, and John's head fell back against the pillow.

"Come on, John," Rodney's mouth continued of its own accord. "Let me take care of you."

His hand slipped under the waistband of the scrubs. John's penis was as substantial as it had felt through the cotton, but now it was all sleek, hot skin pushing eagerly against his palm. John gasped and moaned as Rodney's thumb ran over the flared head and gathered the slippery fluid beading there.

For a few months, Rodney had thought often -- nightly, even -- about what John's aroused penis might look like. He'd only caught brief glimpses in the locker room, not enough to answer the important questions. Now he felt an urge to sweep the blanket aside and look his fill, but that would be too hard to hide if someone came in. With his hand under the blanket, he might be trying to comfort a distressed patient.

John looked plausibly distressed: he was panting and groaning and twisting against the restraints, his face screwed into lines that might have been pleasure or puzzlement or even pain. Rodney's hand moved faster, at the pace and pressure that he used for masturbation, and John's mouth fell open in a long, pleading moan.

Rodney watched his face intently, waiting for something, for a moment of -- what? Pain, guilt, apology, forgiveness? It wasn't there. Only half-lidded, unseeing eyes and an inward-directed focus.

With a growl that sounded angry to his own ears, though he didn't know why, Rodney grated out, "Your turn, John," and swept the blanket aside. He bent down, heedless of back spasms and the risk of discovery, and took John's penis into his mouth. The sour skin taste and underwear smell shocked him for a moment, and he froze . . . but a soft, too-familiar grunting sound from John pushed him into motion again.

One hand fumbled up John's chest, pinching at a tiny nipple through the cotton. The other delved between John's thighs and pressed the soft, hot testicles tight up against his body. Rodney's mouth, as if it had done this a hundred times before, sucked hard and rhythmically, tongue sweeping across the broad glans.

He felt the pulsing in John's balls before he tasted it. Victory was bitter, acrid as ashes, clutching at his throat so he swallowed without ever choosing to. Then it was over and he straightened, looking at John who was blinking back at him in matching confusion. The hand still resting on John's chest found the edge of his bandages and recoiled. The aftertaste spread across his tongue and palate, more caustic by the second. He barely remembered to pull John's scrubs and blanket back into place before he stumbled to the little washroom in the corner.

He rinsed and spat, rinsed and spat, unable to get the dreadful taste out of his mouth. He'd never quite believed the girlfriends who claimed to enjoy it, and now he knew it was a lie. He looked into the little mirror above the basin, shaking his head incredulously.

A stranger stared back at him: someone who looked like Rodney McKay with one eye swelling shut, but who did things that he would never have contemplated. Even when Sheppard was high on the pheromones from Lucius' potion, Rodney hadn't taken advantage of him, but this man --

_I'm not going to take advantage of you just because you're drugged,_ said his own voice in his memory.

The first heave took him by surprise, and he vomited into the sink, splashing onto the mirror.

By the time his stomach was empty, his head was full with recriminations. _Maybe I'll like it better if I take advantage of him,_ and _Was that supposed to be apology or atonement? Or just re-enactment?_ He could hear snatches of phrases in his own voice: _don't care what your excuse is . . . really disturbing to think maybe I wanted that . . . turned into something awful . . . _ all over a steady chant of _ohshitohshitohshit_ somewhere in the back of his mind.

He cleaned the sink and mirror with shaking hands, the ripples of burning agony in his back so constant he hardly noticed. He staggered out of the washroom and stood swaying in the quiet ward, desperate to leave, wrestling with himself. He'd told Teyla he wouldn't leave Sheppard alone, but surely the man would rather be alone than with his attacker? Maybe he could sit outside the curtain, where Sheppard wouldn't see him but he could respond to any distress. Any _new_ distress.

He crept back to the bedside for the chair and icepacks, but Sheppard was unexpectedly still clinging to consciousness. Rodney stood next to the bed, almost in the same position as before, while Sheppard stared blearily back.

"'Od . . . ney?"

Rodney swallowed. "Colonel, I . . ." He had no idea what to say. Apologize? Tell Sheppard it was just a hallucination? Ask Sheppard if it was good for him? Fall on his knees and beg for undeserved forgiveness?

"McKay." It was Ronon's unmistakable bass. Oh god, Teyla had said he'd be here in a couple of hours. What if he'd arrived five minutes earlier?

Rodney started to shake.

Ronon caught him by the arms, and Rodney didn't resist. Maybe the man _had_ arrived five minutes earlier, but waited until now to take his revenge. But no, he was just lowering Rodney into the chair.

"What happened?" Ronon pressed one of the half-melted icepacks into Rodney's hand and lifted it to his face.

"Um . . ." Rodney tried to remember how to make his tongue work, tried to focus on things that had happened on the other side of some impossible gulf of memory and identity. "He went looking for enzyme. Didn't like it when we stopped him."

Ronon grunted. "He hit you in the gut?"

"Huh?"

"You threw up."

Rodney looked down to see if he had splashed on his shirt, but now the back spasms were reaching all the way up to his neck. "No . . . my back . . . pulled a muscle . . ."

Ronon disappeared.

Rodney found the second ice pack and tried to get it behind his back, but it hurt too much to twist his arm that way, so he just sat still and stared at the wheels under Sheppard's bed.

Ronon was back in a minute with Dr. Akebe, who checked Sheppard's vitals quickly and then gave Rodney's back a more thorough, much more painful examination. He wished she had just left it alone. He had the feeling that both Ronon and the doctor were worried because he wasn't talking, but he was afraid of what he might say, so he just stayed silent.

Dr. Akebe injected a muscle relaxant and pain reliever combination into his butt, then something else into his back, then told Ronon to escort him to his rooms and make sure he was comfortable before returning to sit with Sheppard. Shuffling down the hall was the last thing Rodney remembered from a day that had started out bad, become horrible, and then somehow found a way to get even worse.


End file.
